


how we ended up here

by crickets



Category: The Killing
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-03
Updated: 2012-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-06 20:53:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crickets/pseuds/crickets





	how we ended up here

 

Holder is there.

In the end, that's what all this keeps boiling down to. Except she's not entirely sure about that.

_Not quite._

It's raining when they get back to his place. ( _It's always raining._ ) And Sarah can't even be bothered to care. But that seems to be the story of her life -- why she ended up in that place, why Jack's halfway across the country, why she's got no place to live and no fiance, and no anything, when it comes right down to it.

And so, okay, she _knows_ this time is different. She knows that _Holder_ , bless him, _knows_ this is different. This isn't just your garden-variety, reckless neglect. _No._ This thing with the Larsen case? It's very real. And she wouldn't be a cop if she could just turn her back on that. But what kind of mother turns her back on her son? What kind of wife doesn't show up to her own wedding? The answer is no kind of mother. No kind of wife. And she knows she should feel guilty and ashamed, and there's a part of her that does, even when she tries her best to ignore it. But the other part of her? Well...

The thing about the rain is: When it comes?

_The world gets wet._

That much she knows is true.

He holds the door for her and she kind of wants to punch him. He's there. _Again_. And she _is_ grateful. But, she also kind of can't stand it. His face, filled with all that earnest concern that belies his usual demeanor, just makes her so hyper-aware that he is all she's got fucking left. And maybe she thinks, if that weren't the case? _He'd_ abandon her too. Just like everyone else.

She can't decide whether to be angry or whether to grab on to him and never let go.

_Maybe she'll do both._

-

She hadn't noticed the photograph next to his bed the last time she was here.

It's him and the kid from the hospital. In it they're smiling and the kid is so much younger than he is now, practically a baby, and Holder looks unaffected and healthy and happy. This was taken _before_... everything. Before he broke that little boy's heart, before he'd made all the mistakes he's trying so hard to make up for.

_Sarah gets that._

If she didn't before, she does now.

She remembers photographs, having a real place to live, a place to call home. It's something that Jack gave her, a gift from the son that she's all but abandoned. The word _home_ finally meant something after she had Jack. For once. Growing up, she never had that. But Holder did. And he still somehow managed to piss all that away and hurt the people closest to him.

_Maybe they're more alike than she ever gave him credit for._

-

He's lying on the couch when she comes out, the framed picture in hand, only the flashing blue light of the television illuminating the room.

She stands there until he moves his legs, making a space for her, and when she sits down, he eases into a sitting position, turns off the tv.

"Tell me about him," she says, handing him the frame.

Holder just looks at her through the dark, his eyes soft at the edges with exhaustion, and maybe something else, puts the frame face-down on the coffee table and threads his fingers through hers. And she doesn't know what she expected him to say, really. What's the point of torturing themselves? She watches him as he tilts his head back, closes his eyes.

Sarah sinks against the couch, pulling his arm into her lap and letting her head fall to the side and against his shoulder, leaning on him.

But then, really, _that's what she's been doing this whole time._

-

She wakes up in his arms.

She thinks about getting up, finding her way back to the bedroom, sleeping for another half an hour. But the thing is, she hasn't felt this comfortable in weeks. And the other thing? The two of them have work to do.

_The light is breaking outside, and Rosie's killer still walks free._

"Do you remember when you said that sometimes things just stay broken?" she asks him, her voice groggy, the vague realization that he's got one hand on her hip and the other at the back of her neck, fingers tangled in her hair. "That sometimes they can never be fixed?"

Stephen rolls his neck and stretches, his arms high above them on the couch.

She hates to admit that the loss of contact chills her bones.

"Yeah," he says, finally. His voice full of a yawn. "What about it?"

"You still believe that?" She cranes her neck to meet his eyes, lifting her head just slightly. "I mean, if it can't be fixed, then what's the point?"

Holder reaches out and touches her face, his thumb brushing the stray hair from her cheek and back behind her ear. "The point is..." he starts. "We gotta try anyway, you know? World's _fucked_ otherwise. Fucked anyway," he concedes. "But how else are we supposed to live with ourselves?"

Linden nods, presses her cheek back to his warm chest, fingers curling in the soft material of his t-shirt.

_Maybe she'll sleep in after all._

_-fin_


End file.
